Steven discovered he had a granddaughter when she asked him why he had given her away.

He was standing in the garage with a cabinet door balanced across two sawhorses.

The door belonged to Mrs. Donnelly in 214. One of the lower hinges had torn free from the particleboard beneath her kitchen sink. Someone had already tried longer screws, then wider screws, then enough construction adhesive to make the next repair harder than the first one had ever been.

Steven had cut out the damaged section and fitted a piece of maple into the hollow core.

It was more work than the door deserved.

That did not matter.

Mrs. Donnelly had asked whether it could be repaired.

Steven had said yes.

He was waiting for the glue to set when the doorbell rang.

Jessica had left for work twenty minutes earlier. She had reminded him to take the chicken from the freezer before noon and had stood in the doorway watching until he repeated it back to her.

“Chicken. Freezer. Noon.”

“You’ll forget.”

“I won’t.”

“You’re holding wood glue.”

“That doesn’t affect memory.”

“It affects yours.”

She had kissed his cheek and left.

Aries stayed behind in the garage with Steven.

The Rottweiler had been asleep on the old mat beneath the pegboard, broad black-and-tan head resting between his paws. Jessica had raised him from a puppy. He was not young anymore. When he got up from the cold concrete, his front end came first and his back legs followed half a beat later. His nails clicked against the floor before he found his balance.

He gave one low groan, stretched, and stood beside the workbench.

The chicken was still in the freezer.

The doorbell rang again.

Aries lifted his head before Steven moved.

He did not bark.

He looked at the side door.

Steven pointed toward the mat.

“Stay.”

Aries stayed.

Steven wiped his hands on his work pants and crossed the garage. Through the small window in the side door, he could see the edge of a dark coat and long brown hair moving in the wind.

He opened the door.

The young woman on the step looked about eighteen.

Maybe nineteen.

She wore jeans, black boots, and a wool coat that was too light for the rain beginning over the inlet.

A canvas bag hung from one shoulder. Her hair had been tied back, but the wind had pulled several strands loose around her face.

There was something familiar about her.

Not enough to become recognition.

Enough to make him look twice.

“Can I help you?”

She stared at him.

People usually looked at his damaged arm first. Some tried not to. Their effort made it more noticeable.

She did not look at it at all.

“Are you Steven Puglia?”

“Yes.”

She tightened her grip on the strap of her bag.

“My name is Claire.”

Steven waited.

When nothing followed, he said, “All right.”

Her mouth moved slightly. Not a smile. Something closer to disbelief.

“Is that all you’re going to say?”

“I don’t know who you are.”

“I know.”

Rain began striking the metal railing beside the step. Claire glanced toward the street, where a small silver car was parked beneath the cedar trees.

“Did someone send you?” Steven asked.

“No.”

“Are you looking for work?”

“No.”

“Is this about one of the residents?”

“What residents?”

“I work at Coastal Breeze.”

“I know where you work.”

The sentence changed the space between them.

Steven looked past her again.

The silver car was empty. Its windows were beginning to fog.

“How do you know that?”

“I looked you up.”

“Why?”

Claire lowered her eyes.

A small wooden bird hung from a cord around her neck.

The carving was worn smooth. One wing had a shallow cut near its edge where the knife had slipped. A dark mark ran beneath the tail where the grain had absorbed too much oil.

Steven knew that bird.

He had made it at the kitchen table almost twenty years earlier.